running off to feed my meter
outside the restaurant
i bumped into
a mutual friend of ours
finding the frigid city night
unfit for involved conversation
beyond hurried leather-gloved waves
icicles dangling
from steamy hellos
how-are-yous
and goodbyes
when a thought stopped my boots dead
on the sidewalk
a head turning notion
i should have asked him
if you were still alive
kentucky frost settled into my hair
when i realized
i had ceased to care
your heavy handed judgment
how no one is spared
the lucky strike meter stick
of your drunken mother’s eyes
it was that moment i cried
not for you
or us
but for the wasted time
2 replies on “lucky strikes and wasted time”
Sweet, Alicia.
Thank you, Trent.
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